


pictures of you.

by teethrotter



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Petting, M/M, Nightmares, Sickfic, apologies i'm atrocious with tagging, i personally don't think the descriptions are too horrid but just to be safe, kind of?, shitty motel rooms anyone, they're poor and everything sucks, to a degree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teethrotter/pseuds/teethrotter
Summary: Higuchi is addled with fever. Namikawa has grown far too jaded to care about much anymore.





	pictures of you.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empathy_junkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empathy_junkie/gifts).



> content warnings for: descriptions of gore / bodily decay, suggestive wording, and filthy motel rooms.
> 
> this is an au wherein namikawa and higuchi were involved in some massive company scandal and end up in america stranded together and dirt poor. eventually, feelings develop, and higuchi is hospitalized as a result of taking a beating for namikawa. during and after this time, namikawa takes up sex work without higuchi's knowledge to maintain a motel room; everything is piss.

_Ink-black hair fans out over the non-descript landing, portions ripped out in clumps clinging to bits of aponeurosis and pericranium. The landing becomes the hardwood kitchen floor, visibly slick with black motor oil; it is filled with soot, perhaps from one of Higuchi’s own six engines. The soot becomes dura mater, white matter, gray matter, shards of frontal, parietal, occipital bone. The dark motor oil becomes coagulated blood, rusted and flaky. The layers of crusted bodily fluids and physical material is centimeters thick._

_The camera shifts. Flies ( or perhaps VHS static playing a trick on the eyes ) buzz irately about the mess, swollen with innards not their own. Intact hairs thread back to an incomplete scalp, their length enough to appear unending, completely devouring the sleek floor. Any sections of scalp that are not scattered among the hair connect to facial bones: there is a face._

_Its features are distorted, warped with the discoloration of rot and of bone structures having sporadically caved in. The eyelashes are curled high, partially peeled away from unstaring sockets. Dark eyes roll back toward the black hairline. Naturally, they are entirely void of emotion, lifelessly fixed and dilated. The tip of the nose is partially upturned, its cartilage visibly decaying to lessen its otherwise pretty prominence. Chapped lips split over stark teeth. There is the vague promise of an attached body affixed to a slender neck, scraps of muscle visibly ripped from dulled skin; it is too dark to see anything below the bitten shoulders, features blocked entirely in the shadow of the kitchen island._

_Most of the body may be concealed somewhere in the kitchen island’s carnivorous contour, but enough of its features are visible for it to be identifiable. The slim, upturned nose, dark eyes, ebony hair, and long lashes amalgamate to be entirely indicative of Reiji Namikawa, cold and dead for days or weeks upon Higuchi’s kitchen floor, skin sampled by rodents and insects. He appears to have perished due to some horrid blunt force trauma._

Higuchi’s body jolts in what almost feels to be a compulsive seizure. He had not been unconscious, per se, but had hovered somewhere between the realm of reality and unreality, yet another fever dream induced by the clashing of his sickly body and intense medications.

Shortly after his release from the hospital, he had fallen ill with a high fever. True, he had been prescribed a myriad of medications, but many of them were simply painkillers. At least one antibiotic had been included, meaning that the illness must have been born of a virus, most likely due to the unsanitary conditions of his current motel residency and lack of interaction with others during his stay at the hospital. He was generally very susceptible to viral and bacterial infections because of his severely underweight status; he had put on weight in the hospital, yes, but it only provided a cushion of around fifteen to twenty pounds keeping him from death rather than five. This caused medications, particularly the sheer amount that he had recently been ingesting, to interact harshly with his already delicate digestive system. The presence of his fever likely meant that the number would once again decrease soon enough.

Higuchi glances about the dim room, eyes wide and simultaneously bleary with panic. He accounts for the peeling paint in corners of the walls, the mold infesting the cracks in the ceiling, the aching heat of his skin. He is awash with cold sweat, feeling as if he is both freezing and overheating beneath the thin motel sheets, slightly delirious in his perception of their texture; they are far too coarse.

For a moment, he believes he is dying: he has not dreamt of his former home in a long time. He cannot recall the last time that he saw Reiji. For all he knows, he very well _could_ be dead in his home, having tumbled down the long staircase only to be devoured by vermin. He is partially separated from his body, his head spinning as he is made aware of a light weight just above his heart, somewhat nestled against his clavicle –-

“Kyosuke?”

He is grounded when the pressure digging into his chest shifts. Dark eyes rimmed with equally dark circles peek up at him from his shoulder, glazed with fatigue but awake with trained attention. The features of their connected face are blurry, black hair spilling down to conceal them further. As the slender neck works to lift the heavy head up off of his clavicle, Higuchi spots the colorful hickeys marring deeply pale skin, realizing fully who the only individual in his presence to have such markings would be.

Abruptly, Higuchi remembers “Where the Wild Things Are”. It is something he has not thought about since grade school, if even that, but now he is thinking of the story’s climax. Max, freshly appointed king of the Wild Things, decides to return home to warm food, to where he is loved most of all. The beasts are in dismay, heartbroken over his abrupt departure from their lives, crying and gnashing their terrible teeth.

_“Oh please don’t go – we’ll eat you up – we love you so!”_

Higuchi feels his arm distantly crushed and pinned underneath Namikawa’s side.

“Higuchi.”

Namikawa’s neck is craned, even his inky locks unsuccessful in hiding the blemishes inflicted by Higuchi’s tongue and teeth. When had he left those? He is unable to recall. He should probably offer some form of acknowledgement to the other’s words.

The best Higuchi can give is a guttural, hoarse grunt, rimmed and partially bloodshot eyes drifting accordingly from Namikawa’s neck to his face. His throat is dry, his skin bitterly, wetly cold, his vision blurry.

The underside of Namikawa’s thin fingers and palm meet his damp forehead, as if on reflex. His dark eyes are simply tired, displaying little to no concern; he had become accustomed to the other man’s notable health scares.

Higuchi neglected to comment on the fact that Namikawa had recently taken to sleeping with his head on his shoulder to ensure that he continued to breathe throughout the night: it was what the weight settled upon his clavicle had been. It was best that he continued to tell himself he had grown used to nearly losing his sole companion. His fingers silently slip from his skin.

“Your fever hasn’t gone up. You’re alright.”

Higuchi knew better than to assume his boyfriend’s words meant that his condition had done anything but become stagnant. He gives a short, agitated groan. The blanket is far too thin for his skeletal, tremulous body, and Namikawa’s heat does little to warm him.

“How conversational.”

He reads the apprehension in the man’s voice through his sardonic tone. The minimal amount of effort that it requires to do so ceased being shameful many months ago.

Typically, Higuchi would provide some snide remark, but he is currently unable to scrounge up the energy; instead, he rolls onto his side, thoughtlessly tucking his face into his partner’s tender neck. He considers claiming that he is only seeking a greater amount of bodily warmth, but just as he is able to analyze Namikawa, Namikawa can do the same to him. They have long since stopped holding concerns regarding the other’s degree of contagiousness when ill.

“Shut up. Be grateful I’m not pestering you for water or some shit like I want to.”

He was not shaken by his prior vision, nor soothed by Namikawa’s safety. Not at all. His arm still aches from its pinned position beneath the dark-haired man’s hip.

Giving a wry snort, he replies, “I’m still unconvinced about the cleanliness of the tap water. You’ve had the runs, but who knows if that’s because of your fever or filthy water? I’m not willing to find out.” His head slowly returns to the stiff pillow, goading a displeased hiss from Higuchi’s throat as he is forced to nudge his face into his chest.

“You don’t have to tell me I’ve had the fucking _shits_. Trust me, I _know_.”

Namikawa chuckles, breathy and exhausted. Shifting from their usual bedtime positioning, he slinks his arms loosely about Higuchi’s shorter, thinner body, clutching him passively to his front. The older man feels the tip of a nose nuzzle into his greasy hair. Parched lips press briefly to his crown; uncharacteristic, but when was the last time that anything had been normal between them?

“I’m ready for you to stop being so needy; it’s grown very old. These medications obviously won’t be helping you get better, so sleep is the only way. Go back to bed.” The quality of his voice is noticeably gentle, too bone-weary to be riddled with its newly normalized note of anxiety. “I’m tired of hearing you sound older than you already do. I may enjoy the company of older men, but not like this.”

Namikawa’s currently casual nature should calm him, but instead, something hidden within his aimless statement strikes a chord deep in Higuchi’s empty stomach. He remains momentarily still before shakily hoisting himself up onto his forearms, visibly startling his partner, whose eyes dart upwards to fix interestedly ( or perhaps knowingly, challengingly ) on his own.

Before he can speak again, Higuchi’s warm, dehydrated lips are shoved to the younger man’s, only a _slight_ undertone of possessiveness to his actions. It wasn’t as if either of them had ever held any doubt regarding Namikawa’s preference in men; it had established itself as a fact far into the roots of their relationship. Hell, he had been outwardly disappointed upon discovering that Higuchi only exceeded him by two years despite his physical appearance. Still, even if the subtext – the intentionality – of the utterance had been deliberate on Namikawa’s end, Higuchi cannot bring himself to care.

Namikawa presses back near immediately. His lips are similarly cracked, distasteful, but neither of them has possessed the decency to truly care in a long while. His arms tighten on reflex, forcibly drawing skinny ribs into his own. Higuchi’s tongue is dry, his companion’s mouth only minutely more vaporous, pressing without resistance into the slight moisture. Both have terminated coherent thought, resorting to some primal form of engagement, as they most often tended towards.

Higuchi swallows the wetness of his partner’s tongue and mouth as if he is dying of thirst. His free arm moves feebly to grip Namikawa’s dark hair, tugging his head back far more weakly than he otherwise would have preferred. The movement exposes the line of the man’s throat, allowing him to quickly dive in to mar his already brutalized skin further, teeth mercilessly clashing against the pale. Namikawa voices his unneeded approval with a low noise from his chest, his head freely lolling back against the laughable support of the pillow. His long eyelashes glance prettily off of his cheekbones. Busied as he is with the arbitrary task he had assigned himself, Higuchi is unable to appreciate the sight.

“Don’t say that again.” The words are growled into soft complexion, more tooth than sound. “Don’t. I’m the only one here. You aren’t in anyone else’s ‘company’.”

For some indiscernible reason, Higuchi feels as if he is reassuring himself of that sentiment, somewhere deep beneath the fever. He refuses to entertain the notion - no matter how vague.

Namikawa offers a breathless sort of sigh, not bothering to put forth the effort of opening his eyes. He provides no rebuttal, partially extinguishing the angered fire ignited within his older partner’s belly.

He carries on applying even more color to Namikawa’s tenderized skin, marking him with dental impressions and suction alike. Spots of blood bubble where the sharper points of his teeth pierce frequently penetrated skin. The younger man no longer flinches when he is bitten so carelessly; he has come to sigh or squirm instead. Eventually, Higuchi is practically dragged atop the wiry form, gripped so tightly that Namikawa’s knuckles blanche. He does not allow even a millimeter of distance between their bodies.

Tipping his head to fix his lips to his partner’s, Higuchi removes himself only when the inside of his mouth is moist with saliva not his own. He passively eyes the dark-haired man’s flushed, lascivious expression, his lips unknowingly parted so as to supply himself with more oxygen. He is unable to recall the last time he properly ravaged Namikawa; certainly, it had to be before his hospitalization. He had little right to appear as appealing as he currently did.

As such, Higuchi nonchalantly slid off from his partner’s ribs, nestling back into his assigned half of the bed. Namikawa’s expression rapidly slips into one of almost comical confusion and anticlimax.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I’m sick and I’ve got the shits, as you so eloquently informed me.” Another driving factor would indubitably be the looming presence of the very thing that had woken him up in the first place, but it would be better to refrain from telling Namikawa such. “I don’t even know if I’m physically capable of getting it up right now.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, and it’s my fault for fucking with you, but I really don’t have it in me to do you properly. Neither of us would cum before I just passed out on top of you. And not in a sexy old man way; in ‘a ninety-year-old man just died while balls deep in my ass’ kind of way.”

“Hm. Still sexy.” Namikawa’s tone is light, teasing, only subtly clouded with arousal. He seems to be settling from his previous worked-up state, decisively placing his cheek in the sharp dip of Higuchi’s clavicle to indicate his preparation to return to sleep. “That _is_ how you’re going to die, you know. There’s no other way you _could_ die.”

Higuchi snorts amusedly, reclining onto his back. “You’re right, for once in our lives. Now stop talking. I shouldn’t have done that; I feel like I’m either going to puke or piss myself.”

“Bad karma.”

“Bitch.”

Higuchi finds, hours later, that his arm is once again pinned underneath Namikawa’s hip.

**Author's Note:**

> all my love, levi. :)
> 
> http://eiichitakahashi.tumblr.com/


End file.
